All Of The World Is Soon To Be Gone
by UnconnectedJink
Summary: Science Fiction/AU drabble in OmmWriter. Setting: Dante Sparda has amnesia and Leon S. Kennedy is the hologram attached to his arm. And socks. There might be something about socks somewhere in there later.


So, I honestly just wanted to write something in this new OmmWriter program that is from here on out going to replace my ZenWriter (since it now costs money I don't have to spend.)

I don't know what the story to this is yet, but I'm partially excited to see where it takes me!I do however know that it is a sci-fi. The earth belongs to 'demon clans' and someone is going to have a laser gun.

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**The Great Vacation**

_"This is only a record of broken and apparently unrelated memories, some of them as distinct and sequent as brilliant beads upon a thread, others remote and strange, having the character of crimson dreams with interspaces blank and black - witch-fires glowing still and red in a great desolation."_

_**-Ambrose Bierce, 1964**_

As he over looked the edge of the world, he thought to himself: Why am I here?

A not so unusual question, especially when posed by someone who is standing on the very edge of a cliff, presumably looking outward onto a vast amount of land, and hardly inches away from their own death. His feet were a few scant centimeters away from the edge and he could feel the gentle wind against his back. It seemed to be full of small hands brushing across his shoulders.

'Go,' they seemed to say, and tugged with tiny invisible hands against his tunic, encouraging those last few bits. He could hear his heart beating when he looked down.

_Thump, Thump, Thump, Thump_.

It was a very heavy, steady and strong beat. It showed his conviction-his calmness. For someone who stood remarkably close to knowing what it would be like to free fall several hundred feet-he met it with a cool sort of feeling.

With one last glance, he took another look down and breathed deeply, eyes missing nothing of the brush and rocks and jagged things below. Satisfied with his short brush with death, he turned around to leave.

It was then that he was hit with a solid gust of wind-like two massive solid boxes hitting him full frontal and tossing him back just a step-but a step was all that was needed; his foot didn't land on solid ground, and with it his whole weight went over.

He then felt horror coursing through his bones, his blood, his everything as he watched the ledge leave him far above and he fell below.

The sides of the cliff hit his shoulders, and his limbs flailed about in the air with no discretion or even manners towards anything else that might be near him. The air rushed past him in a solid gust, and his skin chilled dramatically as he plummeted downward in a chaotic spiral towards the ground.

The very first thing he met was the tips of the evergreens-reaching so high for the sky. Their tiny needles poked and scratched at him as their branches were far too thin to hold his weight-but they did serve the purpose of slowing him down in the slightest bit.

He felt the tiny ends slapping at him-as if sprites were trying to grasp at him in his fall and failing to catch him. He dared not turn around for fear of seeing his death come about him, and instead he just kept his eyes shut and let the trees bounce him back and forth. Back and forth.

Back and forth.

When the tree limbs steadily grew thicker-the bruises they left on his skin and the tears in his clothes became much larger, leaving him attempting to curl in a fetal position. What felt like an eternal fall was no more than real life slow motion-adrenaline pumping his awareness so high he swore he was even in touch with the cosmic world above him.

'This is it. This has to be it.' His brain cried-waiting for everything to just stop. To splat-in unkind terms.

Though he didn't 'splat', he did in fact hit something-at first it was hard, then it enveloped his body like a deep coffin. The walls were colder than his skin and he was slowed tremendously till he hit the bottom with a gentle 'bump.'

And when he opened his eyes, he realized he'd landed in a lake, staring above at the light glittering overhead, casting beautiful rays of blue and green down upon his face as if the heavens had parted and were welcoming him home.

He pushed off the pebbles and mud below to bring himself to the surface, arms moving and driving with purpose now.

Every splinter of a second he spent underwater, his lungs shriveled up just that much more, and soon it became a panic rush to the top; his hands stretching out, begging to break the surface soon. And when they did, his head came after and he let out a loud gasp, coughing and splashing in panic.

When he'd released all his energy out onto the surface, all the emotions that had been in turmoil, only then did he dare to bring shaking hands closer to his face and wipe away at the water clouding them, the droplets gathered in the corners.

Blue eyes opened, and he took in the world around him, finding nothing but tall trees and the broken branches floating about him-ones that had presumably fallen with him-and still more were being shaken down, needles falling over head like docile green snow, lying across the brilliant surface of the water he kept disturbing.

Once assured he was indeed alive, by pressing a hand to his heart and moving, he found the edge of the lake a good eight meters away. The closer he got to shore, the higher the bottom was, till finally he found solid ground with his feet. As soon as the water dropped lower than he could rely on, he stumbled himself over in a splashing manner.

His body was unable to hold him up and the water had been providing him a buffer. Like a newborn calf, he made a dramatic display of limbs in an attempt to drag himself out of the water and onto the rock and sand shore, relaxing only once the last of his feet had left and he could fist cool grass between his fingers, smell the sweet, sweet air, and lie down without his world moving so fast.

He was no longer able to see the cliff top, and that revelation alarmed him no further than the time it took to have his second thought-

_What was I doing on that cliff?_

He could no more remember his name, than he could the path he'd taken to wake up and find himself standing on the edge of the cliff.

He didn't know how he was born, or who raised him. Did he have a job? A home? Was he a father, son, brother?

Looking down to himself it was hard to gather any information off the shreds of clothing he wore, reaching down to pick at the pants-what material was this? He could see his skin, and the angry wounds, through each hole.

He ran a hand over his stomach, and then reached up to rub his neck, only to pull back once he felt a pinching in his side.

What?

He reached a hand down to under his right side and pulled out a black weapon-a gun. No... a pistol. It was long, and smooth. And heavy too.

Into the side was etched 'Ebony.'

Under his left arm was a silver white. Upon inspection he found it to be named Ivory.

Who was he that he would have named guns? And where was he?

His head pounding, he attempted pushing up to his feet and found himself staggering, crumpling down to his knees, everything in his stomach churning. Burning. Pain.

He felt so much pain that-after his previous experience, he was actually glad to be feeling it. Pain meant life, didn't it?

Grinding his teeth, he dragged himself over through handfuls of grass to the nearest tree. At first he propped himself up over a root and took a deep breath. Then he pulled one leg up closely, and prepared to stand again, this time sliding his back up along the tree for stability, legs shaking.

When he feared he would fall again, he found he wasn't going to and sighed in relief. He refused to move from his tree for a moment, allowing feeling to come back into his legs. He wondered if he had to re-learn how to walk. It almost seemed like it, when he put both hands behind him and onto the tree, turning slowly, and attempting to walk.

As wobbly as a babe taking its first steps on its own, he too was attempting what seemed like the impossible.

"I thought I heard you fall."

He heard the voice and turned to look over his shoulder, finding no one at first. Perhaps the woods were playing tricks on him-except he could smell someone; if that were at all possible. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, nostrils widening with the force and then releasing a breath, once again taking a step.

"Be careful, you're going to fall."

There that voice came again. He whipped his head around and still found no one, eyes staring hard.

"I'm down here-or did you forget how to use me?"

He looked down. Still nothing. He saw his feet. Or rather he saw his shoes.

"Hello? Reporting in. I'm on your wrist. Let me out."

He turned his attention directly to his arms, and found one of them was heavier than the other. Stumbling back from the tree and nearly planting on his ass again, the man stared at his arm.

The piece of work was long and silver, the screen flickering to life-despite the water logging and cracks in it. Mud smeared and a few needle bits. "Are you just going to stare at me, or press the button?"

He fell on his ass that time, mouth opening in silent distress. His wrist was speaking-or more importantly what was on it was speaking.

"Hey-I'm scanning a lot of alarm and adrenaline coursing through your body. You okay?" The screen flicked in a rainbow of colored bars with each word. He shook his head. Then nodded. No response.

"Hello? Listen-if you're ignoring me, then that's durrian shit. I need to check to see if you have any brain trauma."

Finally he took a breath and reached down, looking over all the buttons, he went to press one-

"Not that one. The other one. To the left."

He obeyed and flickering to life was a small hologram of another man-this one wore an interesting suit-suit? It seemed as though it were made of machine parts and wires. His blue eyes glowed as well, blonde hair a mess.

"Oh look at me-you've completely disrupted my hardware, and I worked hard on the mobile platform-hey. You alright?" The small man who could stand in his hand-probably curl up in it-looked at him with expectant eyes.

He opened his mouth as if to try and say something. Words failed him.

"You know, I'm realizing I haven't been turned on in days. Almost a week. And we're out in the woods. You look like you've been beaten to hell and back. What's happened since you deprogrammed me?"

Deprogrammed...?

"Wha... is that..."

"Seriously?" The tiny man seemed to stare right through his own eyes, and he almost didn't want to let the computer down.

"I..."

"Shit, stop thinking so much. Your brain is fritzing out. What do you remember?" The hologram walked up his arm, and seemed to be checking his wounds out. He just watched.

"N...nothing."

There was silence that followed his statement as he felt those small sparks coming from every time the hologram's fingers came in contact with his skin. It almost felt like this had been done a million times before, and he felt familiarity, camaraderie with this small being. Enough to relax and just watch as his wounds ached and then went into a dull pain.

Only inspecting one on his arm after the tiny man was done, did he realize there was a sort of salve on there-how did it get there? Did he put it there, or the tiny man?

"Well, we'll begin with the basics. I am Unity 3389 on the mobile platform. But you named me Leon S. Kennedy after a former, now deceased, lover." The small man informed him, and he felt confusion mount.

Former, dead, lover.

Three adjectives. Or two, and a noun. Descriptions he couldn't possibly hold any meaning to. When he didn't respond, the small thing called Leon S. Kennedy continued,

"Do you know your name?"

"No."

"Your rank or even what year it is?"

He shook his head, blue eyes turning back around to meet this Leon S. Kennedy with a confused stare. The hologram returned it and both sat in silence before he watched as the tiny thing opened its mouth and revealed more.

"You are Dante Sparda, son of Sparda. The year is 2768. And we are currently at war with demons known as Lusts and Shades."


End file.
